TURBINE | KAPOHAU

The Institute Building is a Church owned and operated facility, run by the Church Educational System or CES. This is where the Mormon university students congregate between lectures and tutorials. A haven just off campus, where we are invited to attend multiple religious classes during the week. I’m there every day, usually sitting near the front of the class. I sing in the Institute Choir with my mum’s youngest brother, my Uncle James, who is only ten years older than me. The Choir is conducted and led by everyone’s favourite Aunty Lil, who has a soft spot for me because she grew up with my Nan. I am also on assignment to run a series of weekly talks called ‘The Forum’. I invite and introduce prominent, successful community members to share their stories and wisdom.  

It is a regular, purpose built, red brick building that houses all this higher spiritual education. The brass plaque outside bears the logo of the church, a green manicured lawn, bordered by a tasteful array of low maintenance native shrubbery. Inside are perfectly white walls, thick carpet, large gilt framed mirrors and muted paintings of scriptural scenes: the resurrected Jesus Christ surrounded by children and Joseph Smith kneeling in a grove of trees. Not only a place of reverence and learning, but a space where young single adults are encouraged to socialise — marriage being the ultimate goal. There are multiple comfy sofas arranged invitingly for long conversations, ping pong tables and everyone’s favourite, still warm cinnamon rolls or chocolate chip cookies from the kitchen. Not to mention the free parking.  

* 

I often feel alien on the university campus, awkward when interacting with the other students. I can’t participate in the conversations about ‘O-Week’, weekend parties, clubbing or drinking. I have never tasted alcohol, don’t drink coffee, have never even stepped inside a nightclub before. I can hold conversations about lecture content, but engaging on anything other than a basic social level, is anxiety inducing.  

During my first semester, I am invited to a study session at a flat full of English Literature students. I go along, not really having any idea what to expect. Maybe I should be unsurprised when there is very little actual study happening. The vibe is more beer cans, couples making out and small groups engaged in those philosophical debates students inevitably delve into. I quickly become a person of interest and Fiona, the confident talkative girl who invited me, with her perfect no makeup makeup and silky blonde hair, keeps asking question after question about Mormonism.  

We sit on a saggy stained brown sofa, I’m sipping my tap water in a grubby glass, she is on to her third can of beer, not that I am counting. I’m doing my best to answer the questions, masking my aching self-consciousness with fake confidence. There is a curling piece of peeling wallpaper, just on the wall behind her head, and I resist the urge to tug on it. It is satisfying to imagine the tearing should I rip it from the wall down to the battered skirting board. 

‘I didn’t know Mormons were Christian,’ she says. 

‘Yes, we definitely believe in Jesus Christ. The actual name of the church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’ 

I take a sip of the lukewarm water.  

‘So, what makes you different from other Christian religions?’ she persists. 

‘Oh, um let’s see, one of the main differences is that we have a modern living Prophet, who leads and guides our church.’  

She leans forward. 

‘Really? Like the Pope? Does this Prophet live here in NZ?’ she asks. 

‘No. He lives in Salt Lake, Utah, where church headquarters are. But he travels the world to visit members all over. There are more members worldwide, outside of the United States than inside. The Prophet is coming to New Zealand this year, actually.’ 

‘Really? So who leads the church here locally? A Pastor?’  

‘Kind of, we have a Bishop who looks after the local ward, and multiple wards make up a stake, there are three stakes in Hamilton that are made up of five to six wards. Each one has a Bishop and counsellors who volunteer to look after the congregation. They are service positions, as in unpaid, everyone has regular jobs.’ I am especially proud of this point.  

Fiona doesn’t seem particularly impressed and asks, ‘Are there any women Prophets, Bishops or what did you call them… Counsellors?’  

‘Oh… no. Only men hold the Priesthood and have the authority to lead in those positions. But there’s a women’s organisation called The Relief Society’. She is calling out something that I have accepted unthinkingly, and in this environment seems a little unfair. 

‘It all sounds very patriarchal to me.’ She says scathingly.  

I am taken aback — I have never heard the word patriarchal said in that tone before. Her nose wrinkles as she says it, as if there is suddenly a bad smell in the room. Like patriarchy has appeared between us on the sofa, in the form of the stinking long drop I used on Form 2 camp.  

‘Oh, well, I guess it can appear that way,’ I purposefully make my voice light and unconcerned. ‘But it works well. Everyone has their roles and opportunities to serve within the community and everyone benefits.’ 

I one hundred per cent believe what I say and hope I have politely closed off the conversation. I leave as soon as I feel it is socially acceptable to do so and am not invited back. 

I am aware that the tenants of Mormonism are perceived as weird to the outside world. In fact, we had always been taught that Mormons are a ‘peculiar people,’ historically often persecuted for their faith. Joseph Smith is held up as making the highest sacrifice; a martyr and defender of the truth. At the Institute building I wasn’t seen as strange for my beliefs but understood and respected for my faith — It becomes my refuge.  

* 

The lecture theatre is fizzing a bit like the Berocca tablet I plopped in a tall glass of water this morning. US History: An Introduction is a foundational paper with over one hundred students enrolled. I spot my friend Jenny seated halfway down in the centre and slide into the empty seat next to her.  

‘Hey Jenny, how are you?’ 

I greet her with a smile and pull out my notebook, feel around for a pen in the depths of my backpack. Her face evokes memories of handwritten notes and giggly late-night confessions. We met as awkward eleven-year-olds at Intermediate School and bonded over having strict religious parents and mandatory church on Sunday. Jenny’s family are Christian, a kind of Christian that is alien to me, where worship services showcase rock bands complete with full drum kits and electric guitars. We lost touch during our separate secondary school adventures; her to Hamilton Girls High School and I to The Church College of New Zealand, only to reconnect by falling into some of the same humanities classes at our local University of Waikato.  

There is a rustle beside me and another familiar face. Kelly takes the seat next to me, filling the row. We swap smiles. I know Kelly’s whole family, have exchanged countless of these greetings from the chapel pews and hallways that our families frequent. She is a few years older than me, served a mission for our church and recently got married in the Temple. I know there are a few other Mormon students dotted around the theatre but after a cursory scan, can’t see them.  

There is a visceral anticipation about this specific lecture. In the course outline it is detailed simply as ‘A History of Early Mormonism.’ I casually and naïvely assume Dr Richards will cover how the Mormon pioneers had immigrated from all over Europe and populated the western states. Maybe detail their community endeavour, the towns and cities that sprung up around them as evidence of their honest hardworking grit. Perhaps the lecture may even touch on the persecution the early saints suffered. I feel proud that my childhood friend will learn how the religion I belong to has positively impacted American history. But really, these thoughts have been fleeting and now that the time has come, my heart is thumping, taking over my chest, and I default to my favourite trick of spinning my pen around my middle finger over and over, using my thumb as the guide. The reality of the situation and my vulnerability dawns a little too late. My pen clatters to the desk as the microphone squeals and the overhead lights dim.  

Dr Richards, of slight build, bright blue eyes and a head of youthful curly brown hair, that seems at odds to his serious demeanour and actual age, begins the lecture without preamble.  

‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was made up by a convicted fraudster, Joe Smith, a conman, who started the Mormon cult.’  

I freeze, eyes on Dr Richards. Stunned at the brutality of his opening statement. Dr Richards does not let up, and his remarks continue to attack the character of Joseph Smith and give a scathing review of Mormonism. My hackles rise at his derisive tone. Familiar pictures of the Prophet Joseph, quotes inscribed on my heart from scripture are beamed up on the bright screen and picked apart. Two worlds are colliding: my religious life and my academic life. Dr Richards rants unapologetically for the entirety of the lecture hour. 

 ‘Joe Smith was a megalomaniac who claimed God spoke to him and told him he would soon rule the earth.’  

Finally, it ends. Dr Richards asks if there are any questions or comments. He is met with relative silence; only a single rustle of paper, and the zip of a backpack being closed. I imagine a braver version of myself rising and vehemently opposing what he has said, standing tall and calmly bearing my testimony of the truthfulness of the Church and the validity of the Prophet Joseph Smith and The Book of Mormon. However, to my shame, my body is locked into position, unable to move, not even to make eye contact with my friends, especially not to make eye contact with my friends. I silently will one of the other, older, Mormon students to do or say something in our defence. The moment passes, Dr Richards dismisses the class with a victorious gleam in his eye. He surely knows that there are many Mormons in the lecture theatre. He has not been challenged. The house lights flash from dim to too bright and a buzzing chatter erupts.  

Tears pool in my eyes and threaten to spill over. I am careful to not let my eyelids close all the way, so that the tears hang there unshed, kept in check. I hastily push my notebook, on which there are no notes, into my backpack. Jenny says something, I think kindly, but it’s gibberish. I mumble something avoiding looking directly in her face and hastily turn to exit the row, Kelly nowhere in sight. My eyes return to the floor, one converse sneaker after another. Underfoot is carpet, lino, concrete, steps, more concrete, grass, road, concrete footpath. I’d never realised before how many different textures of concrete footpath there were in this one stretch. I unconsciously move towards the safety of the Institute building, a ten-minute walk down the road.  

* 

The Director of the Institute is Elder Rose, he and his wife are American Senior Missionaries, who are dedicating three years of their lives to serve the Lord here in Hamilton, New Zealand. They have left behind a very comfortable retirement, their family and friends, not to mention their beautiful home and lifestyle in Utah. They are beloved. I sit in Elder Rose’s office where the whole story of the Dr Richards lecture comes tumbling out. 

He asks me, as I knew he would, ‘Did you say anything at the end of the lecture?’ 

I shamefully shake my head, feeling his disappointment.  

My memory is not clear on how the next part transpires, but somehow or another I end up in the office of the University Mediator and Counsellor, sharing my experience and concerns. It had felt like an attack, and I felt unsafe to voice my opposition in the class, given my religious beliefs and the possible impact on grades, to disagree openly with Dr Richards, who was so obviously anti-Mormon. The Counsellor was kind and serious when she asked how I would like to proceed, would I like to make a formal complaint of harassment? Anonymity would be ensured. Several other students who were in the lecture also saw the counsellor and made a complaint.  

I am in no way prepared for the ruckus that ensues. The incident is widely covered in the local newspaper the Waikato Times. I am terrified that my religious identity will be discovered by Dr Richards and that I’ll receive a fail grade. I consider withdrawing from the paper completely, but discard this as an immediate giveaway. The only choice then is to stay the course. Continue attending lectures, complete my assignments, maintain my anonymity as much as possible — although rumours are rife. 

The culmination of the divisive affair is an evening open debate held at the University where both representatives of the university’s Mormons, students and university faculty, and Dr Richards have an opportunity to speak. While this is all unfolding, there are discussions with my dad, who is a Stake President at the time. None of these discussions involve close examination of the material put forward by Dr Richards. I am offered spiritual support in the form of a priesthood blessing by my father and other church leaders.  

 *

Twenty years after the original incident, I reach out to Dr Richards on Facebook Messenger. His profile pic is a Sheldon-esque blond-haired little boy with bright red bow tie. He is retired now.  

Hi Dr Richards.  

I’m messaging you because I was a student in one of your US History papers at the University of Waikato in 1998—when there was all the fuss about Mormonism. I was actually one of the students who made a harassment complaint. I’m very sorry about that. I was very ‘all in’ and only 19 at the time. I grew up very orthodox Mormon with 6 generations of my family here in NZ faithful members.  

I’ve since left the church, and am continuing to learn and deconstruct the history that was hidden from me. In an effort to try to make sense of it all, I wondered what you remembered about that time? I would love to be able to revisit the material presented in your lecture. I was stunned back then, it was my first experience encountering anything negative or contrary to what I had been taught. I was encouraged by all those around me to view it as anti-Mormon rhetoric. Interested to know your thoughts.  

Best, Trina

I receive a reply in a few hours and we agree to a video chat.  

‘Call me Raymond,’ he says.  

* 

Looking back now I can see that the information I heard in that lecture, did not penetrate the shield of faith that surrounded me. I did not take the opportunity to investigate or test the information presented. Instead, I doubled down in the faith that had been nurtured from my birth. I sought guidance from older and wiser leaders, men that I respected; my husband, my dad, Elder Rose. Dr Richard’s rhetoric was whole-heartedly dismissed as anti-Mormon, a twisted and ugly version of events, not to be trusted. 

I wonder if Dr Richards had approached the subject with a little more tact, or neutrality, holding an awareness of his believing Mormon audience, if the information could’ve been received more openly? This may have provided an access point for those who either had questions about Mormonism at the time or who may have questions arise in the future.  

And yet, while I do not remember the exact charges Dr Richards expounded, I can guess that everything he said then was most likely correct. After learning the long-hidden facts of the church history for myself over twenty years later, it is shocking and sordid without any embellishment. Even if Dr Richards had shared with gentleness and compassion, it most likely would have been received in exactly the same way. 

* 

How might my life be different, if I’d taken the opportunity to delve deeper into the history of Mormonism in 1998? Would I have left the church then? Saving or losing myself twenty plus further years of faithful membership? How would I have spent all the extra time freed up from service in the church and community? What could I have explored or accomplished with a more secure connection to self over a twenty-year period? There are a hundred variations of what ifs.